


Love Speaks in Silence

by HoofbeatsOrThunder



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoofbeatsOrThunder/pseuds/HoofbeatsOrThunder
Summary: Just a small collection of missing Turnadette scenes, all set prior to 2x08.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Series of one-shots, not really sure how many there will be altogether. This is mostly just a way for me to deposit my headcanons for these two in one place, so some of the timeline and such is of my own creation. If anyone has any prompts or requests for additional scenes, hit me up at your-life-was-my-lifes-bestpart on tumblr.
> 
> Story title is a line from Lifehouse's song All That I'm Asking For.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting between Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette... circa August 1948.

This is the first birth Sister Bernadette will have attended on her own since having joined Nonnatus House. Until this point, she accompanied either Sister Julienne or Sister Evangelina, though she greatly prefers the tutelage of the former. Sister Evangelina, for better or worse, has not yet warmed up to her. She doesn’t take this personally after having seen her elder sister behave just as brusquely towards the other nurses.

She turns a corner, almost stumbling over a pair of grubby children playing on the landing. Sister Bernadette skirts around them, careful not to step on any wayward fingers, and continues searching for the right flat.

The conditions of the building are truly appalling, but housing units such as this seem to be worryingly commonplace in the district. Trash is scattered across the halls and stairs, and the communal toilets are particularly heinous. Dust and dirt covers most flat surfaces. She had never seen anything quite like this before she began nursing and midwifery in Poplar, but she is quickly becoming accustomed to the conditions, little though she likes it. Sister Bernadette feels such a deep sorrow in her heart to think that people must live like this, but she cannot help them all. Later she will pray for them, ask that God grant them some measure of relief and a chance for a brighter future. But for now, she has a job to do elsewhere.

Sister Bernadette finds the correct flat, the door cracked open. Inside she hears a woman’s heavy breathing and the murmur of at least one other person in the household. She knocks on the wall just inside the door to announce her presence. 

“Mrs. Willis,” she calls into the foyer, just as the woman in question comes barreling around the corner, iron grey hair looking quite disheveled. 

“‘Bout time you got here, sister,” she says in a harried voice. She takes Sister Bernadette by the elbow and practically drags her down the hall. “Jenna’s in a right state, goin’ on that something don’t feel right with the baby, just like it was with the other two before she lost them.”

Jenna Willis is propped up in bed when Sister Bernadette reaches her, blonde hair tangled, her face already covered in a sheen of sweat. The girl is young, barely twenty-one if that, but from her case notes, Sister Bernadette knows that this is Jenna’s third pregnancy and the only one to have gone to full term.

“Hello, Jenna,” she says, smiling softly at the younger woman. She sets her bag aside and digs through it to find her pinard. “How are we doing so far? Have your waters broken yet?” She bends over her, presses the pinard to Jenna’s already exposed stomach.

Jenna groans, panting with effort, before whispering, “Yes they’ve broken, but something’s wrong, sister. Ain’t nothin’ about it that feels right.” The baby’s heartbeat is quick and strong through the pinard. Sister Bernadette straightens, shooting Jenna a reassuring smile.

“Baby’s heartbeat is perfect,” she tells the younger woman, returning the instrument to her bag and gathering everything she’ll need into an organized row on the side table. “Now, I know you had a few difficulties with your first two pregnancies, so we’ve already called Doctor and asked him to attend as well. He’ll be here soon, and then we’ll get everything underway.”

Mrs. Willis rises from the chair at her daughter’s bedside and shuffles towards the door. “I’ll get some water boiling while we wait, sister.”

Left alone with her patient, Sister Bernadette uses the moment to take a deep breath. She trained nearly five years for this, and she’s more than qualified to handle any issues that may arise during the birthing. However, that does little to reassure her nerves. With her back still to Jenna, she closes her eyes and whispers a prayer for both mother and baby’s health under her breath. Another deep breath and she turns to Jenna. “All right then, Jenna, I’m going press a bit on your tummy to try and see where baby is currently positioned.” 

Sister Bernadette draws the bedsheets a bit further down and begins to palpate Jenna’s stomach. After a few moments, her heart drops into her stomach as she realizes that something is indeed wrong. She glances up at the younger woman. “I’m afraid baby’s being a bit naughty, Jenna,” she murmurs, careful to keep her tone even.

Jenna’s face crumples, eyes shining with tears. “What’s wrong with it, sister? Is it alright?”

She presses around Jenna’s stomach a bit more just to confirm. “Baby is fine, Jenna, but it seems to be presenting breech.” Sister Bernadette straightens, turns back to her bag to give herself a moment to calm her herself. She continues, “That means that baby is bottom first rather than head first. Doctor is already on his way, remember, so everything is well in hand.” When this fails to reassure the younger woman, she takes Jenna’s hand. The mother-to-be’s grip is so tight it’s nearly bruising, but Sister Bernadette doesn’t complain. She meets Jenna’s frantic gaze and feels her own mind sink into a deep well of calm. God is with them now. She can sense the warmth of his love, feels the strength of his power filling the room. Sister Bernadette smiles at Jenna.

“I promise, all will be well.”

  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  


Jenna’s labour is well into the third stage when Sister Bernadette hears a knock down the hall. Mrs. Willis reluctantly releases her daughter’s hand and rushes to answer the door. She continues encouraging Jenna to breathe, peeking under the blanket to check baby’s progress; Jenna is fully dilated by this point. It won’t be long now.

Moving back up the bed, Sister Bernadette presses around the younger woman’s stomach. Under her hands she can feel baby’s shoulder, not facing downwards as it had earlier but now lying along Jenna’s left side. Transverse, then. There’s an increased likelihood of a prolapsed cord now, another issue to keep a watchful eye on.

“Jenna, baby still isn’t cooperating, so I’m going to try and move it into a better position myself.” Behind her, Sister Bernadette hears Mrs. Willis and presumably the doctor enter the room. She ignores them for now, keeping all of her focus on the nervous and exhausted mother before her. Mrs. Willis returns to Jenna’s side, taking her hand once more. Sister Bernadette nods to the older woman and then returns her attention to Jenna. “This is going to be very uncomfortable, but I need you to be as still as possible. Can you do that for me, Jenna?”

Jenna nods, grimacing as another contraction overtakes her. When it passes and her breathing a bit more even, Sister Bernadette begins. Pressing with firm, even pressure, she slowly shifts the baby, pausing during contractions but otherwise going at a slow, steady pace. Jenna groans, the tendons of her neck straining as she struggles to remain still.

As Sister Bernadette prepares to sit back and grab her pinard, a man leans past her shoulder. Startled, she realizes that it must be Dr Turner, who she hasn’t actually been introduced to as of yet. Her sisters at Nonnatus House have had nothing but good things to say about the man, and she’s been eager to meet the doctor who inspired such impassioned praise from the other nurses and midwives.

Just now Dr Turner has his stethoscope pressed to Jenna's stomach, seeking baby's heartbeat so that he assess any change of position. Their shoulders brush. Sister Bernadette stares, quite unable to help herself. He is years younger than she expected him to be, the doctors of her experience always on the very far side of middle age.

The doctor straightens, turns to her with a grin. “Well done, sister. Baby seems to be in the perfect position for birthing now.” Sister Bernadette looks away and stammers a thank you. Another contraction overtakes Jenna at that moment and saves her from further embarrassment. 

The labour continues unremarkably, and within the hour, Jenna Willis is the proud mother of a little baby boy. Sister Bernadette feels a frisson of pride in her abilities which she quashes almost immediately. 

She casts a glance at Dr Turner where he stands unobtrusively in the corner, washing his hands in a basin of water. His whole attitude throughout the delivery had been a pleasant surprise. He allowed her to lead the proceedings as she wished, only stepping in when she requested he do so. Sister Bernadette recalls the doctors during her training, how they lorded their supposedly superior knowledge over all the nurses, never once allowing women control of the situation if they could help it. She studies Dr Turner while he is still looking away, observes the set of his shoulders, the elegant lines of his back only just visible through his white oxford. He is quite handsome, she realizes with some surprise, with his head of thick black hair and strong jawline. 

But his good looks are not what had captured her attention, or her grudging admiration, throughout the delivery. It was his kindness and his compassion towards Jenna and even Mrs. Willis. No task had been beneath his capabilities, no question asked too simple for him to answer. And he seemed so absolutely genuine in his gentle reassurances to Jenna. It is obvious, increasingly so the longer Sister Bernadette spends in his presence, that he cares deeply for the well being of the people whose care he has been tasked with.

Dr Turner turns around, hands and forearms still damp from washing. Sister Bernadette looks away quickly, heat rushing up her neck at having been caught staring yet again. She hopes the wimple will hide her blush and save at least some of her dignity. 

She needs to occupy her hands, to keep her mind focused on anything other than the doctor. She strips off the white gown protecting her postulate habit, folding it absently while she begins to organize her instruments. Placing the dirty ones into a bag for cleaning, Sister Bernadette does not take notice of Dr Turner’s approach until he is right next to her. His close proximity startles her once again. He is nearly close enough to touch, it would an easy thing to simply stretch out her left hand and place it on his bare forearm-

“Forgive for not doing so earlier, sister,” he says with a wry grin, “But I don't believe we've been introduced yet.” He holds out his left hand, which she takes automatically. His hand is so much larger than her own, but his grip is quite gentle. His skin is still warm from washing. “Patrick Turner, local GP for Poplar.” He releases her hand, though the grin remains.

She can’t quite smother a small smile of her own. “Sister Bernadette. I've only just joined Nonnatus House, it's not been a month quite yet.”

“Well then, I imagine we'll be seeing quite a lot of each other, if you decide to make Nonnatus your permanent residence.”

Sister Bernadette resumes packing up her tools. “I don't have any intention of leaving. Poplar has a need which I intend to fulfill.”

“Indeed, sister,” he replies, and Sister Bernadette can hear the smile in his voice. He takes a deep breath and continues, “Well, Sister Bernadette, it seems that you have everything well in hand. I'll leave you to your work.” Dr Turner retrieves his jacket from the side table, and after a brief goodbye and an offer of congratulations to Jenna and Mrs. Willis, he leaves them. Sister Bernadette remains quite still until she hears the front door close behind him. 

Mrs. Willis’s voice behind her jars Sister Bernadette back into motion, “That there is as good a man as any you'll see in Poplar, sister. Forgive me for sayin’ so, but he's the closest thing to a saint you'll ever catch me prayin’ to.”

Sister Bernadette closes her case and pushes her glasses back up her nose. She remembers how carefully he held her hand, as if he were cradling a fledgling bird. She takes a deep breath, holding it in her chest for a long moment before exhaling slowly through her nose. 

Sister Bernadette pushes away thoughts of Dr Turner and forces herself to focus on her patients. There is still so much work to be done.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during 1x07, so sometime late in 1957. This is essentially a write up for the very small scene these two shared in the episode with an additional scene tagged on. This also introduces a very small amount of Shelagh's history as it is in my personal headcanon.

Sister Bernadette stands over the autoclave, carefully pulling each instrument from the machine and placing them in their proper bags for future use. A knock at the doorway startles her from her thoughts, and she turns to see Dr Turner ease into the room, cigarette in hand. As he greets her, Sister Bernadette feels the flutter of warmth in her stomach as his soft accent washes over her. Sister Bernadette turns away from him to focus on her task once more, hoping to settle her wayward nerves, inevitably set alight whenever the doctor enters the room.

Idle conversation on the still absent autoclave at the maternity home gives way to inquiries after young Timothy. Dr Turner takes the change of topic in stride and seems content to speak of his son though the tidings are not particularly glad. It becomes obvious to her that he is simply relieved to have someone willing to simply ask and listen. Sister Bernadette wonders if the doctor has friends, or anyone really, with whom he can openly speak and share his thoughts. She can only imagine how stifled he must feel, a busy physician to a needy populace and single father to a young boy.

He speaks of the upcoming holidays, the first without his wife, and his eyes are shadowed with concern for his son. Sister Bernadette imagines she can see Dr Turner’s worries hovering over him, threatening to crush him under their immense weight at any moment. _Poplar’s very own Atlas_ , she thinks, _with the world balanced on his shoulders_. He looks so very tired, his exhaustion obvious in the deep lines around his mouth and the furrows between his brows. Suddenly there is a terrible tightness in Sister Bernadette’s chest as she realizes she cannot bear to see him so downtrodden, so resigned to the worst. She feels a desperate need to reassure him, to offer some hope, though she will not, perhaps even cannot, name what it is that drives her to do so.

“I lost my mother when I was very young,” she says quietly. “Children are more resilient than you think.” Sister Bernadette sees the brief flash of surprise on Dr Turner’s face when she shares this small piece of her own personal history, feels it mirrored by her own bewilderment. She hasn’t spoken of her mother to anyone except perhaps Sister Julienne in all the years she has been with Nonnatus House. She has never wanted to, before now.

Her heart races as she watches him process the information, and she fears she has said more than she should, more than is appropriate. _But we’re colleagues_ , she thinks, grasping for some justification that will soothe her fractious mind. _And it is perfectly proper for colleagues to offer one another support in times of crisis_. Dr Turner watches her for another long moment before changing the subject once more, attempting to lighten the heavy mood with a self-deprecating joke about Timothy’s opinion on his cooking.

She can see that her words have given him at least some small comfort, though, in the ways his shoulders relax just a fraction. They watch each other in the brief silence that follows, the air between them threatening to thicken with a tension she doesn’t entirely understand.

When Nurse Franklin returns a moment later with a message for the doctor, Sister Bernadette feels a surge of both relief and disappointment.

But then he steps closer to retrieve the bag of clean instruments. Sister Bernadette cannot stop herself from risking another glance at Dr Turner’s face, though she is uncertain of what she wishes to find. His hazel eyes are still dark with fatigue, but the fear seems to have fallen away from him, even if just for the moment. The smile he gives her is so very fragile that she can hardly catch her breath. She barely manages to offer her own smile in return before he takes his leave, the smell of his cigarette still lingering in the air long after he has departed. The ache in her chest takes far longer to fade away.

  
  
//*//  
  


That night, Sister Bernadette dreams of her mother. She has not done so for many years, though perhaps her conversation with Dr Turner had stirred those long sleeping memories and brought them to the forefront of her mind with startling clarity. 

_She's six and sitting in front of her mother’s vanity, running her tiny hands across the worn wood. Her mother stands behind her, brushing her hair with long, gentle strokes. Shelagh looks up, meets her mother’s smile in the vanity mirror. She grins back, showing off the gap left in her teeth since losing her first tooth only two days before and her mother laughs. Setting the brush aside she begins to plait Shelagh's hair, separating the honey blonde locks into sections with careful fingers._

_“What shall we do today, Darling girl?”_

_“Snow angels, Mummy!” she demands immediately. There has been almost nothing else on her mind since the snow started to fall the morning before; by now there should be more than enough to make the most perfect snow angels in the whole of Aberdeen._

_“Snow angels? That'll be such fun. Perhaps we'll be able to convince Art and Da to join us as well,” her mother says as she finishes Shelagh's hair. “But we have to bundle up very warmly, don't we Darling girl? Can't have any of us catching cold.”_

_Shelagh nods, as serious as a six year old can be; if Mummy says so, then it must be done.  
_

  


_Shelagh dashes through the snow, Art toddling along in her wake as quickly as his chubby toddler legs will carry him. She and Mummy have already made their snow angels, and now her mother stands by the door, watching them play. It's nearly time to go back inside. Shelagh wishes to stay in the snow forever, even if the cold makes her fingers and nose hurt._

__

_From the doorway, her mother coughs once. Just once._

  


_Her mother lays in bed and sleeps, her skin so pale that she almost looks like one of Shelagh's very special porcelain dolls. Shelagh is hungry, but Da says that she has to let Mummy sleep. So she waits next to her mother’s bed with her little book of paper and her colored pencils. She'll draw her Mummy a picture for when she wakes up, to help make her feel better._

  


_Her mother lays in an open coffin, her hair simply styled. She wears her prettiest church dress, the blue one with the flowers embroidered along the hem. There is an unsettling stiffness to her features, something that makes her look not quite like Mummy. Shelagh stands over her, not six years old as she had been when her mother died of pneumonia but as she is in the present day. She is thirty-one and shaking with barely restrained sobs, no better than a child as her father puts an arm around her shoulders and draws her against his chest._

_Shelagh cries into the lapels of her father’s poorly fitted suit, almost three decades of buried grief mixed with a child’s fresh loss rising like a wave in her chest until she cannot breathe from the force of it._

_“Easy now, Darling girl,” he father says, though she feels the words rumble in his chest more than she hears them. The familiar lilt of his accent makes her heart ache; how long has it been, how many years, since she last heard her father’s voice?_

_His hands slide along her shoulders, gently pushing her away so that she can look at him. But instead of her father, it's Dr Turner standing before her. His hands, so large and warm, cup her cheeks and tilt her face so that their eyes meet. The open affection in his gaze strikes Shelagh dumb, leaves her limbs paralyzed so that she could not move away from his embrace even if she wished to._

_Dr Turner steps closer, his jacket now brushing the front of her blouse. Shelagh wishes he would press even closer, would bring her chest flush with his so that she could feel the planes of his body against hers. The thought leaves her lightheaded. She sways against him, forcing him to wrap an arm around her waist to support her as she grasps helplessly at his jumper. Shelagh gasps, startled by the heat coiling up in her belly._

_It is nearly impossible to catch her breath; at this rate she will surely suffocate, so overwhelming are the sensations this man provokes in her._

_He brushes a thumb over her bottom lip, leans in so that their noses are nearly touching. His breath fans across her face. Ever so carefully, he presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, the pressure of his lips so light she hardly feels it. Her heart beats so ferociously that she thinks he must be able to hear it. “What is it that you want, my darling girl?” Another kiss, on her temple. The hand at her waist boldly moves around to the small of her back, the heat of his palm searing through her blouse. “Please, Shelagh,” he murmurs into her hair, “tell me what you want.”_

Sister Bernadette wakes with a start, the alarm on her nightstand chirping merrily in the weak morning light that filters through her window. Her heart still races, as though it will burst from her chest. She throws back the blankets and stumbles from the bed, her legs ungainly as a newborn filly’s and breathing heavily as if she's just run halfway across Poplar. When she reaches her mirror, her eyes run wildly over her own features, cataloging the faint flush in her cheeks, the darkness of her usually pale eyes. Her cap is still in place, blonde hair hidden from the world, out of reach of any man. 

She feels as she is still caught between sleep and waking. If she were to close her eyes, Sister Bernadette thinks she might still be able to feel the phantom touch of Dr Turner’s lips against the corner of her own mouth.

But she does not close her eyes, does not imagine the doctor’s face in her mind’s eye, so full of love and affection.

She has made vows, has forsworn the chance to find love, to build a family of her own. Most days Sister Bernadette does not regret her decision. Her calling to the religious life has given her a purpose and allows her to help people in ways that would be beyond her otherwise. But at this moment, when Dr Turner’s loving eyes flash across her vision every time she blinks, her vows are nothing but heavy chains wrapped too tightly over her chest. She feels as though she cannot draw breath, so constricting are the ties that bind her.

There is a knock at the door, and Sister Monica Joan’s voice cuts through her thoughts, calling her to join the other sisters for their morning prayers.

“I’ll be just a moment,” she replies, pleased that her voice does not waver and betray her inner turmoil. She casts a final glance to her reflection. Her cheeks are pale once more, the flush of her dream having drained away in the harsh light of the waking world. _I have no right_ , she thinks, _to dream of such things when there is so much work to be done_.

She turns away from the mirror, away from the dream-memory of Dr Turner and his impossible-to-answer questions, and gathers her things to prepare herself for the long day ahead.

Sister Bernadette leaves her room, but as she walks towards the chapel a voice long forced into silence asks, _What do you truly want in this life, Darling girl?_


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring of 1958, set between the events of 2x01 and 2x02

Sister Bernadette finds that the days she does a rotation in Dr Turner’s surgery are the most difficult. It's not the work; most people that come in have minor issues that can be resolved within a few minutes. And she quite likes being able to speak with various people in the community that she might not see otherwise, especially the younger children. No, the difficulty stems from the fact that she is in fairly close quarters with the doctor himself for a large part of the day.

She dreamt of him again last night, an occurrence that is happening with increasing frequency and intensity. 

The details of the dream have slipped away, but she remembers strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and waist. She remembers with the clarity the sense of safety, of belonging, she felt in his arms. How cruel her mind is, to grant her the one thing she desperately longs for and to then take it from her with the rising sun. 

And now Dr Turner’s very presence sets her nerves on on edge. It's as if her body has suddenly become attuned to his every movement; she senses him the moment he enters the same room as her, feels his gaze like electricity as it passes over her. It's driving her to distraction. Just earlier, Sister Bernadette nearly jumped out of her skin and dropped a box of pregnancy tests when Dr Turner skirted around her in one of the narrow hallways, his hand briefly pressing between her shoulders so that she wouldn’t run into him. It’s maddening, to be quite honest.

Today, her one saving grace is young Timothy, who is currently out of school on holiday. For most of the day, the wee thing has been stuck in his father’s office. Sister Bernadette makes an effort to pop in every hour or so, bringing the boy fresh tea or engaging him in a few moments conversation. Timothy is terribly bright, she's beginning to realize, and he has a voracious appetite for new information of any kind. She's very fond of him, possibly more than she should be, but she finds it impossible to look at Timothy, to speak with him for any length of time, and not be awestruck by his maturity. To endure what he has at such a young age and to still be so vibrant and interested in the world around him is nothing short of a miracle in Sister Bernadette’s eyes.

She glances into the surgery’s lobby as she passes through to the supply closet, clean linens in hand. There appears to be only one or two patients waiting and none of them seem to be in any urgent need of assistance. Sister Bernadette replaces the fresh linens on their shelf and she quickly crosses the hall to check in on Timothy again.

Timothy looks up as she slips in to the office, blue eyes wide and hopeful. When he realizes that it's only Sister Bernadette and not his father, his face drops a bit. Her heart aches for the boy; he so desperately wishes to spend more time with his father. She feels a sharp pang in her chest when she thinks of her own Da, five years gone from this earth and well beyond the reach of anyone but the Lord Almighty. “Getting on well enough in here, Timothy?”

The boy returns his attention to the paper he has spread in front of him. He scratches a few lines across the page with a colored pencil before mumbling a polite “Yes, sister.”

She takes a few steps towards the desk, hovering next to the chair. “Would you mind terribly if I sat with you for a few minutes, Timothy? I feel as though I've barely had a chance to catch my breath all day.” Timothy nods, still silent with his eyes downcast.

Sister Bernadette peeks at the page he is furiously scribbling on. Even from her backwards vantage point, she can tell that he's sketching a rather good picture of a man on horseback. Smiling, she remarks, “That's quite lovely, Timothy. Is it anyone in particular?”

The boy looks up, forehead wrinkling with some suspicion, as though he doesn't trust the sincerity of her interest. Sister Bernadette wonders if Dr Turner ever takes the time to admire his son’s drawings, to encourage Timothy to continue in his artistic pursuits. She knows few enough boys are inclined towards such things. 

Timothy studies her for a moment before finally saying, “It's meant to be Alexander the Great and his horse Bucephalus.” He stumbles slightly over the last name, but Sister Bernadette barely notices. She finds herself rather enchanted by the way his eyes light up with excitement. He looks so much like Dr Turner in that moment. 

“I believe I might of heard of them,” Sister Bernadette says with a small grin. Timothy smiles back, leaning further forward, pushing his drawing closer to her so that she can see it more clearly. 

“Would you like me to tell you the story, Sister Bernadette? I checked out a book from the school's library, and I've been reading all about them.” The boy is quickly gaining interest in the conversation and seems thrilled to have a captive audience. Sister Bernadette can't bear the thought of disappointing him, so she nods, encouraging Timothy to continue.

What follows is a truly spirited retelling of Alexander’s taming of the mighty Bucephalus. Timothy makes for an energetic storyteller, hands in constant motion as he speaks. As he goes along, Sister Bernadette rather suspects that Timothy might be adding a number of additional flourishes to the tale, but she's quite content to humor him.

Just as Timothy is nearing what must be the end of the story, the office door opens. Dr Turner enters, eyes skimming quickly over a file in his hand. “I finally got Mrs. Penney on the phone, Tim, and she's here now to walk you home and to stay with you until I finish-” He stops short, having finally glanced up from his reading and realizing that his son isn't alone in the room. His brow wrinkles with confusion. “Sister Bernadette?”

As if jolted into awareness by her name, she stands, awkwardly caught between the keen gazes of both Turner men.

“Forgive me, Dr Turner, I was just checking on Timothy.” She clasps her hands together, eyes firmly focused on the doctor’s tie. From the corner of her eye, she sees Timothy begin to shrink back in on himself, his mouth just shy of pouting. Sister Bernadette looks to the boy and feels rather helpless at that moment; she can feel the the space between the three of them becoming quite tense. She grasps for something to say, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “In fact, he was just telling me a lovely story that he's been researching, about Alexander the Great.”

Dr Turner steps closer and Timothy quickly begins to gather his papers into a pile before stuffing them into his bag. “I didn't realize you were interested in those sorts of stories, Tim.”

Timothy pauses in the middle of closing his bag. “You never ask,” he mutters. Dr Turner looks down, and Sister Bernadette recognizes the disheartening mix of exhaustion and shame creeping into his hazel eyes. 

“Timothy,” she says, gaze fixed firmly on the doctor, “why don't you show your father the drawing you're working on?” The boy looks as if he might refuse and run from the room, but slowly, he reopens his bag and pulls out the slightly crumpled drawing. He holds it out to his father. 

Sister Bernadette watches carefully as Dr Turner moves past her, taking the sketch from Timothy. He studies it for a moment.

“It's meant to be Alexander and Bucephalus,” the boy mutters, looking to Sister Bernadette as if for assurance. She gives him a small smile. Dr Turner lowers the page and looks at Timothy with an expression of such tender pride that she feels as though she is intruding on some private family moment. 

“This is quite good, Tim,” he says softly. Timothy’s eyes jerk up to meet his father’s, startled by the praise. “Would you mind if I kept it?”

“No.” The denial seems to strike the doctor rather hard, but then Timothy continues, “It's not done yet. I have to finish it, and then you can have it.” Dr Turner grins, relief loosening the tension growing in his shoulders, and Timothy gives a rather sly smile of his own before plucking the drawing from his father's hand and bolting for the door. Just before he slips into the hall, Timothy turns back, face suddenly very serious again. “I meant to say earlier, Sister Bernadette, but I really like you're new glasses. They're very pretty.” He seems to blush ever so slightly, as if embarrassed by his own admission. Before she can respond, Timothy spins about and thunders down the hall, leaving Sister Bernadette alone with the doctor. 

There is a sudden silence in the room which she isn't sure how to fill, so she keeps her eyes down and prepares to return to work. Only Dr Turner’s quiet voice stops her from doing so. 

“Thank you, sister.” She looks up to find herself the object of fairly intense scrutiny, Dr Turner’s hazel eyes full of some emotion she can't name. She forces herself to break his gaze and wishes helplessly that her heart would slow its mad beating in her chest. 

“It’s no trouble,” she manages to says through the tightness in her throat. “Timothy is a wonderful boy. I wouldn't mind sitting with him more often, to be honest. He's quite the storyteller.” She can't contain an affectionate smile. 

“I don't mean thank you just for sitting with Tim, sister. I had no idea he'd taken such an interest in drawing.” Dr Turner runs a hand through his hair, further disheveling his already unruly locks. His bangs flop back across his forehead, and Sister Bernadette twists her fingers together to prevent herself from reaching out to tidy them. He moves around his desk and sits with a heavy sigh. “He was always scribbling on scrap paper when he was younger, but I hadn't realized how much he's improved over the years.”

Sister Bernadette does not retake her seat even after the doctor gestures for her to sit as well. He seems disappointed by her refusal, and she is reminded once more that Dr Turner must have very few people with whom he can discuss his personal concerns. Guilt gnaws at her stomach. Against her better judgement, Sister Bernadette resumes her seat and says, “It's not a hobby most young boys enjoy. He might have been too nervous to show you.” 

Dr Turner reaches into his jacket and removes his cigarette case and lighter. With a few practiced movements, he has one lit, taking a long, deep drag before he responds, smoking curling from his lips. Sister Bernadette’s feels an unexpected heat ignite in her belly. 

“But I should know about his hobbies, about the books he's reading, the things he enjoys.” His voice is so forlorn, guilt twisting the corner of his mouth as he takes another drag on his cigarette. She wants to reach out and smooth away the deep lines around his lips, wants to take the fag from his hand and put it to her own lips, to fill her lungs with hot, coiling smoke until it burns away her illicit affections for the man himself. Dr Turner’s voice pulls her from the maelstrom of her thoughts. “He's growing up, and I'm missing it.”

Sister Bernadette doesn't know what to say, what reassurances to give. “You've been very busy.”

“That's no excuse!” he very nearly shouts, and Sister Bernadette flinches at the volume. She doesn't think she has ever heard the doctor raise his voice in anger, and its startling. He realizes his error immediately, hazel eyes apologetic. When he continues, his tone is much calmer. “Since Marianne died, I've been running myself ragged. I thought if I could stay occupied that it would prevent me from fixating on what I'd lost, but it seems that Tim’s been the one to suffer for it.”

Sister Bernadette quite suddenly feels as though she can't catch her breath, memories from a past she's long put behind her swarming to the forefront of her mind. Her own mother's death had similarly unraveled her family, though her father had favored drowning himself in drink rather than work. She blinks rapidly, trying to stem the watering in her eyes. Dr Turner catches her distressed gaze, but she looks away quickly. She can’t bear to see the shame and guilt in him that she had never once seen in her own father.

She clears her throat before he can say anything. “The first step to finding a solution is to recognize the problem in the first place.” Her accent is thick with suppressed emotion, but she plows onward. “You've made a start now, and all that's left is to follow through.”

A long pause follows the statement. Sister Bernadette risks glancing up through her lashes, trying to gauge Dr Turner’s response. Her heart quickens. His expression is so soft, some intoxicating mix of gratitude and awe, and she feels a wave of her own affection bloom wildly in her chest. Is this what the poets mean when they speak of one soul reaching out to another? It feels as though her heart may just leap from her chest, so rapid is its pace. Dr Turner's eyes flicker over her face, as if if searching for something. 

A door somewhere in the surgery slams unexpectedly, and the invisible thread between then snaps. Sister Bernadette stands abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over in her haste. Dr Turner stands as well, leaving his long forgotten cigarette burning in the ashtray. 

“I'm sorry. I've monopolised your time with my personal shortcomings when I'm sure you have work to do,” he says with a self-deprecating twitch of his lips.

Sister Bernadette chokes back the words on the tip of her tongue. _My time is of little consequence when you already possess my heart and soul._ Instead she settles for, “I always have time to help a friend in crisis.” 

Are they really friends though? She barely know hims for all the time they spend in each other's company, and he knows even less of her, doesn't know her history or even her real name. Surely she’s overstepped herself now, crossed some unspoken boundary between them. Sister Bernadette steps away from the chair, from the desk, from the doctor himself; she has to leave, now, before she says something she’ll truly regret.

“I think I must be incredibly lucky then, to be considered among your friends,” Dr Turner says from behind her, accent warm and soft, and oh does this man have any idea what he does to her? How he threatens to chip away the very foundation upon which she stands with nothing more than a few glances and a gentle voice?

_God forgive my treacherous heart, but I consider you far more than just a friend._

Sister Bernadette opens the door, preparing to run so that she might perhaps smother the upheaval of her mind with work. “Timothy was right, you know.” Against her will, Sister Bernadette stills and waits for him to continue though she wants nothing more than to steal away with the tattered remains of her dignity.

She turns just enough to look back over her shoulder, not quit meeting Dr Turner’s eyes, and asks, “Right about what, Doctor?”

“You’re new glasses really are quite pretty,” he replies, but the statement hangs in the air, pregnant with words left unspoken. Sister Bernadette simply nods, unable to speak, and then she leaves the room and doesn’t stop until she is safely ensconced in the supply closet. Her hands immediately go to the cross hanging around her neck, the edges digging almost painfully into her skin. The plain gold band on her right ring finger glints mockingly. 

Nearly five minutes pass before her heartbeat to returns to its normal pace, but she still struggles to draw a full breath, as if there are iron bands wrapped around her chest preventing her lungs from expanding to their fullest extent.

Everything is getting out of hand. Her feelings, which Sister Bernadette had once been able to ignore or pass off as the familial fondness she feels for the other nurses and her sisters, will not fade. In fact, they seem to only be growing stronger with time. 

Her increasingly desperate entreaties to God have gone unanswered, leaving her bereft of the solace she normally finds in prayer. It feels as though she has been abandoned. The very idea that God has forsaken her leaves her weak and trembling, her knees threatening to give way beneath her. She has dedicated nearly half of her life to following the path He laid before her, turning her back on the expectations of her father and brother and giving up any chance of building a family of her own so that she could undertake this calling. 

If she does not have His strength and direction, then she will truly have nothing.

Sister Bernadette forces her fingers to uncurl from around her cross and stares at the angry red lines criss crossing her palm. On the other side of the door, she can hear voices, though their words are indistinguishable. She straightens, some of her resolution returning to her; there are patients to be dealt with and care to be given. Her feelings, her doubts, her fears, they have no place here. She will speak with Sister Julienne as soon as she can, unburden herself to the older woman and to God, and then she will continue on as she has always done.

Resolute and once more in control of herself, Sister Bernadette slips out of the supply closet and returns to the lobby to greet the next patient. She cannot change her current course, only hope that time and prayer will heal the ever widening rift in her heart.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning: this chapter does contain mentions of past abuse as well as a brief scene with abusive language and violence.
> 
> This chapter takes place between 2x02 and 2x03.

Sister Bernadette cycles along the street towards the row of flats that house her last two patients of the day. She is utterly exhausted, her body still desperately trying to catch up after having helped Nurse Miller with a long delivery two days previously. As she dismounts from her bike and props it against the brick front of the first flat, she wonders if she’s coming down with a particularly tenacious cold. 

Usually, Sister Bernadette is quick to recover from long, grueling nights with laboring mothers, but for the past week or so she feels as though she’s lost all of her energy. Any sort of prolonged activity leaves her feeling utterly drained; she’s caught herself napping more than once while she’s been on call and waiting for the telephone to ring at Nonnatus House. 

Perhaps she should be a bit more concerned for her own health, but there’s simply too much to do. She can’t stand the thought of putting a greater strain on her sisters and fellow nurses when she’s still able to carry on well enough.

Sister Bernadette unstraps the delivery pack from her bicycle. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she knocks on the flat’s door and waits. Around her the street is alive with the sounds of the neighborhood, children running about and yelling as they play, mothers occasionally shouting warnings to their youngsters, men and women alike slowly making their way home after a long day’s work.

The door finally open to show a harried looking Susan Perry. “Sorry for the delay, sister,” she says as she ushers Sister Bernadette into the flat, though her heavily pregnant belly makes skirting around one another a bit difficult. Sister Bernadette smiles kindly. 

“It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Perry. As far along as you are in your pregnancy, I’d rather you take your time and not overtax yourself.”

Susan gestures for her to proceed into the sitting room, following along at her own pace. The young mother-to-be practically collapses onto the couch as soon as she reaches it, face twisting with discomfort and hands rubbing soothing circles over her stomach.

“I feel as though I’m trying to move through treacle,” Susan say with groan. “Keeping up with Gerald is nearly impossible now that he’s finally started walking.” With a tired chuckle, she adds, “What I wouldn’t give to be able to actually run after the little fellow; I swear he’s always getting into something.” Sister Bernadette places the delivery pack on one of the smaller side tables before moving closer to her charge.

“You’re nine months pregnant, Mrs. Perry, and ready to pop at any moment,” she says primly, though she can’t quite hide her sly smile. “I would be more surprised if you could manage more than a rather sedate shuffle at this point.” Susan grins back. 

Sister Bernadette chats for a few more minutes with Susan, making certain the woman is as comfortable as she can be, before she takes her leave. 

On the street once more, Sister Bernadette takes her bicycle in hand and walks it down the row of flats. It would be quicker to ride to the end of the road, but the quiet bustle of the neighborhood is soothing, in its own way. Walking among the people she has sworn to assist, seeing the life as it plays out in the thrumming heart of Poplar, it grounds her. She desperately needs these moments, to reassure herself of her place and her path. 

However, with every passing day it’s becoming more difficult.

There is a growing unease taking root in her heart. At every turn, it threatens to overwhelm her, to drown her in the rising tide of her own doubts. Where she once found comfort and purpose in the routine of religious life, in the offices of prayer and the comradery of her sisters in Christ, she now only feels a gaping emptiness. And beyond that, Sister Bernadette struggles with ever increasing desires, for things, people, that she can never have.

When she sleeps, she dreams of possibilities, of a life that is not her own but she secretly, fearfully craves. All she sees is smiling hazel eyes in a beloved, careworn face, a young boy with his father’s sly grin, faceless children with her own honey blonde hair, a home that is full of love and laughter. 

She has never before felt such an intense longing, so strong that it steals her breath, makes her heart clench in her chest. In the moments just after waking, in her own bed and not that of the man who so frequently fills her thoughts, Sister Bernadette nearly crumbles under the strain her vows. She is so very tired of struggling against what seems inevitable. 

Lately she has taken to spending much of her unoccupied time in the chapel of Nonnatus House. Yet for all of her prayers and penance and pleas for clarity, for peace of mind and soul, God has remained silent. She fears what His silence means.

“Sister! Sister Bernadette!”

Sister Bernadette nearly jumps out of her skin, so startled is she by the sudden shout. She looks behind her and is surprised to see her last patient of the day, Linda Bromley, rushing towards her.

“Oh, Sister, I’m so glad I caught you before you left. I had to run to the post office, and I was worried I wouldn’t be back in time to meet with you.” Sister Bernadette glances around, trying to reorient herself after having been so caught in her own thoughts. She realizes with some small alarm that she has been standing just in front of the Bromley’s flat, bicycle still in hand and deeply lost in her own mind.

She manages to smile at Mrs. Bromley, though she suspects it falls rather flat if the other woman’s concerned look is anything to go by. “Your timing is perfect, I would say,” she replies finally. “Why don't we pop inside so we can get your insulin shot done and out of the way.”

Mrs. Bromley nods, fumbling a bit for her key. Sister Bernadette rests her bike against the wall and grabs her medical bag. 

“That's odd,” Mrs Bromley says as Sister Bernadette follows her into the flat. “I could have sworn I locked the door when I left.” Inside, both women pause after nearly tripping on an overturned coat rack in the hall. From somewhere within the flat, there's a loud crash. Sister Bernadette’s first thought is that they’ve interrupted a robbery, and she immediately grabs Mrs. Bromley by the arm, trying to pull her back outside. Mrs. Bromley refuses to move though, eyes fixed down the hall. 

“It's alright, sister,” she says, pulling her trembling hand from the nun’s grasp. “I think my husband must be home early from work.” Mrs. Bromley’s expression shows no relief though. If anything, she seems even more frightened. 

“ _Linda, is that you?_ ” comes the shout from within the flat. The sound of shattering china reaches them and followed by another crash. 

Mrs. Bromley turns quickly to Sister Bernadette, tries to push her into the sitting room just off the hall. “You can just wait here for a minute, sister. I'll go make sure everything is alright.” Her voice trembles, but the other woman races out of the room before Sister Bernadette can stop her. 

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” she hears, but Sister Bernadette is frozen in place, her vision clouding with memories from her childhood. 

Her father had never raised his hand to either her or her brother, thank the Lord; however she has heard that tone, recognizes the anger and promise of violence behind it. There had been a girl she attended primary school with, whose arms had always been riddled with bruises, though she always had a clever reason to excuse them. Mary, Sister Bernadette thinks her name was, Mary Clacher. 

They hadn't been friends, not really, but they used to walk home together from school. Mary was very quiet, they both were, but Mary always seemed terribly timid, shoulders always hunched forward as if to make herself appear as small as possible. 

Sister Bernadette recalls the day she realized something was wrong. The pair of them approaching the Clacher home, Mary’s stride growing ever more hesitant as the weathered farmhouse came into view. Shelagh watching the other girl, wondering why Mary would look so frightened.

She sees Mary so very clearly in her mind’s eye, hears the girl’s father shouting horrific abuse into the Mary’s face, hands wrapped so tightly around her slim arms.

Down the hall Sister Bernadette hears Linda Bromley’s husband shouting the same things, voice thick with the threat of inevitable violence.

The sharpness in her chest suddenly becomes too much. Sister Bernadette drops her medical bag on the couch and practically runs out of the room.

Once, Shelagh Mannion stood at the crossroad, young and painfully aware that there was nothing she could do to help Mary, just as she hadn't been able to help her own mother. This time, she refuses to stand idle and watch another woman suffer. 

Sister Bernadette finds the couple in the kitchen, though Mrs. Bromley has managed to keep the table between herself and her husband. She's trembling like a leaf in the wind, and Sister Bernadette rushes to her side, hands curling around the woman’s shoulders to offer support. Mr. Bromley immediately straightens, eyes burning with rage and shoulders stiff with barely restrained violence. In his clenched fist there's a half empty bottle of dark liquor. 

“You'll do well to get out of my house, sister,” he says through a clenched jaw, words slurring slightly.

“I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Bromley,” Sister Bernadette shoots back, her own temper bubbling up in her chest. She can feel her blood pulsing madly under her skin, but she forces herself to stand tall under the man’s hateful glare. 

Linda turns to her, eyes wide and imploring. She looks back to her husband, her voice cracking. “Please, Jack, just calm down. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you got home, but don't take it out on Sister Bernadette.”

With no warning, Mr. Bromley throws the bottle in his hand across the room. It shatters against the wall behind Sister Bernadette, spraying her and Linda with glass and alcohol. “Don't you fucking tell me what to do!” He grabs the edge of the table, flipping it on end with barely any effort. Both women jump away, and Mrs. Bromley screams. There's a massive cacophony as all the china crashes to the floor. “Who do you think you are, you little bitch? Leaving the flat without telling me, and now you think you you can tell me what to do in my own fucking home?”

He reaches for something on the counter, and Sister Bernadette reacts without thinking to move in front of Mrs. Bromley. She feels Linda grab fistfuls of the back her habit as she tries to pull her from the room, but Sister Bernadette refuses to budge. From the corner of her eye, Sister Bernadette sees Jack Bromley throw something. She has just long enough to recognize that it's the kettle before it strikes her across the shoulder and jaw.

There's a brief flash of pain and then, of course, all hell breaks loose. 

  
**//**  


He’s meant to have finish his district rounds already, and yet Patrick Turner finds himself on Powell Street with Timothy waiting impatiently in the back of the MG. 

Patrick gets out of the car, but then leans back down to catch his son’s eye over the seat. “I shouldn't be long, Tim, and as soon as I'm done we'll get fish and chips for dinner. That sound good to you?” All he gets in response is a petulant stare. Sighing, he closes the door, leaving Timothy to whatever school reading he's brought along.

Guilt rises up the back of his throat, like hot, acidic bile, but Patrick swallows it down. It seems that he can never properly balance his work and parenting, constantly fighting to make time for his son amid his growing number of patients. He has made a greater effort recently, after having discovered Timothy’s varied interests with Sister Bernadette's help, but his profession makes it so very difficult. 

Patrick goes about his work, making a quick job of administering morphine to Conrad Moore in the hopes of alleviating the pain of the old man’s failing body. He declines an offer of tea and makes his way back to his car and his son. 

He's stored his bag in the boot of the MG and is lighting a cigarette when a police vehicle comes barreling up the street, coming to a squealing halt a few flats down from where Patrick is parked. A pair of constables leap from the car and storm into the flat. It's at that moment that Patrick notices the bike propped against the brickfront and recognizes it as one belonging to Nonnatus House. He feels a flicker of unease. 

Timothy leans over the seat, trying to get a better look. “What's happening over there, Dad?”

Patrick takes a drag from his cigarette. “I'm not sure, Tim. Nothing too serious, I hope.” Before he even finishes, one of the constables reemerges, with a second be man in tow; the civilian struggles against the officer’s grip and stumbles on unsteady feet. The other constable jogs out of the flat and looks up and down the street. He notices the MG and makes his way over, and, as the man moves closer, Patrick recognizes Constable Noakes. Getting out of the car once more, Patrick quickly stubs out his cigarette and tosses away the butt. 

He shoots Timothy an apologetic smile. “Stay here. I'll be right back.” He shuts his son in the car and meets Constable Noakes halfway across the street. The younger man greets him, the seriousness of his expression eased some by his obvious relief at Patrick’s presence. 

“Dr Turner, bit of luck that you're here.”

“Is there something I can assist with, Constable?” 

Constables Noakes gestures for Patrick to follow, striding quickly back towards the open flat. “We received a call from a neighbor that there was shouting and what sounded like a number of things being thrown around.” He pauses, glancing back at Patrick with some wariness. “Turns out that one of the sisters from Nonnatus, Sister Bernadette, was present when the incident occurred.” Patrick’s heart skips for a beat. 

“Is anyone hurt?” he asks, concern lacing his voice.

Constables Noakes gives a grim nod but grabs Patrick by the arm before he can go bolting into the flat. “It's nothing life threatening, Dr Turner.” His tone is meant to be reassuring, but Patrick can still feel his anxiety sitting like a lead weight in his stomach. “According to the lady of the house, Sister Bernadette was in the line of fire when the husband threw a kettle across the room.”

Patrick shakes himself loose from the younger man’s grasp. “I'll go see what I can do.”

The flat is a mess inside, things strewn across the floor and furniture overturned in the hallway leading to the back of the flat. Patrick heads that way, hearing the cries of a woman just before he reaches the kitchen. His heart stutters as he takes in the scene. 

The table has been upended and shards of broken china lay scattered across the floor. Amid the chaos, Sister Bernadette leans against the kitchen counter, her arms wrapped around the woman Patrick had heard sobbing, presumably the wife of the man that was dragged from the flat. He can’t see Sister Bernadette’s face, not from his current place in the doorway, but he sees the faint tremble of her hands as they run soothingly up and down her companion’s back.

The tight knot of worry in his chest slowly begins to uncoil. Patrick clears his throat softly, trying not to startle either woman with his sudden arrival.

Immediately, the woman releases Sister Bernadette and steps away, dabbing at her wet cheeks with edge of her sleeve. “Dr Turner,” she says, surprised but with a great deal of relief. Patrick finally recognizes the woman as one of his diabetic patients, Linda Bromley, though it has been some time since he has last seen her in person. 

Sister Bernadette stares at him as if caught off guard by his presence before she averts her gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come forth. He doesn’t know how to express his relief that she is safe, doesn’t know if he even has the right to offer such platitudes. 

Mrs. Bromley staggers a bit where she stands, and, as if snapped out of a trance, Sister Bernadette rushes forward to support her, quickly leading the woman out of the kitchen.

“Forgive me, Doctor, but Linda still needs her insulin shot,” Sister Bernadette says as the pair brush past him and continue down the hall. Patrick can’t seem to remove his gaze from the younger woman’s face, observing with some distress the bruise forming along the nun’s cheek. He trails behind the women and watches silently as Sister Bernadette seats her charge on the couch before retrieving the necessary injection from her medical bag. She makes swift work of administering the medication, moving with quick, efficient movements that give no indication that she had just been attacked.

Patrick steps forward as Sister Bernadette stows the used needle safely in her bag, but as he reaches out to touch her shoulder, she flinches away, startled blue eyes flying up to meet his gaze. He can see quite clearly now how the bruising, already turning a dark, ugly purple, extends from her chin and along the entire line of her jaw.

“Let me have a look at that, sister,” Patrick asks softly, hand hovering in the air between them. Sister Bernadette's attention flickers between his face and his outstretched hand before looking away, eyes focused on a point beyond his shoulder. 

“I'll be just fine, Dr Turner. There's no need to trouble yourself.” She turns and occupies herself with packing up her bag. Patrick lets his hand drop, swallows against the knot in his throat. Despite his concern, he can’t help but feel a tiny frisson of frustration at her willful disregard for her own well-being.

Across the room, Mrs. Bromley speaks up. “Don't be foolish, sister,” she says, the harsh words tempered by the concern in her voice. “Jack caught you full on with that kettle, and threw it hard enough to knock you off your feet. Let Doctor check to make sure all is well.”

Sister Bernadette clutches her bag close to her chest. “I assure you, Mrs. Bromley, I'm perfectly fine.” She turns and makes as if to slip past Patrick, to flee back to the safety of the convent, but he presses a hand to her shoulder before she can pass. The pressure he exerts against her is feather-light, but Sister Bernadette still freezes at his touch. Patrick can feel the faint tremor of her body under his hand, like a wild animal desperate to lash out at the unfamiliar contact. 

Finally, and with a great deal of reluctance, she nods. Patrick’s shoulders sag with relief, and he flashes her a quick smile, though Sister Bernadette does not return the gesture and still appears troubled. She allows Patrick to guide her from the room with a hand hovering just behind her back. He wishes he could think of some way to comfort her, despite the fact that his touch seems to set her on edge. He forgets sometimes that they are bound by a certain etiquette, Sister Bernadette especially so due to her vows, and Patrick suddenly regrets causing her any discomfort, however unintended. 

The two of them leave the flat but are stopped briefly by Constable Noakes. When Sister Bernadette insists that she won't be pressing charges against Jack Bromley, Patrick has to bite his tongue. It isn't his place to insist otherwise, even if he wishes he could personally repay the man for the damage he inflicted on the young nun. Constable Noakes looks as though he might agree with Patrick’s thoughts, but says nothing and simply assures Sister Bernadette that he will personally ensure that her bike is returned to Nonnatus House.

As they approach his car, Timothy tumbles from the back seat, eyes lighting up when he sees Sister Bernadette. The boy’s excitement quickly turns to concern, however, as he notices the bruising on Sister Bernadette's face.

“I'm just fine, Timothy,” she says, trying to offer him a smile, though it obviously pains her. “I had a wee bit of an accident while on my rounds, but it's nothing to worry yourself about.”

“Have you let Dad look at it?”

Sister Bernadette purses her lips, appearing quite ready to once again to refuse any offer of medical help, but Timothy interrupts. 

“Please, Sister Bernadette, it'll only take a moment, right Dad?” His son looks to him for assurance, and Patrick nods in agreement. 

“I would just like to make certain that there's nothing worse than bruising, sister.” Patrick's tone is dangerously close to begging, but he feels no shame in it. He simply wishes to help, to provide care to this woman who has so enchanted his boy and who is quickly becoming the only person that Patrick considers a friend and not just a colleague.

Sister Bernadette looks helplessly at Timothy’s earnest expression as the boy clings to the sleeve of her habit and, with a defeated sigh, turns to Patrick, giving a nod of assent. “If it will give the two of you some piece of mind, then I suppose I have no choice.”

Timothy grins triumphantly, and Patrick is equally thrilled, though he hides it a great deal better than his son. Stepping around car, he stops just in front of Sister Bernadette, watching her closely. He reaches out his left hand, letting it hover just beside her cheek so that he does not catch her unaware as he did earlier.

“May I?”

Sister Bernadette gives him a nervous smile and nods. “It’s my shoulder that took the brunt of it,” she says, pale eyes darting away from his face to fix firmly on the ground, “But that will be something Sisters Julienne or Evangelina can assess.” Though her cheeks turn a rather fetching pink, her voice brooks no argument, and Patrick has no desire to push the issue. He’s simply relieved that she’s allowing him to examine her injuries at all.

“Of course, sister.” Patrick catches Timothy’s eye over Sister Bernadette’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go ahead and wait in the car, Tim?”

Straightening her shoulders, she tilts her face so that the bruised half of her jaw is facing Patrick. She studies him from the corner of her eye, though Patrick cannot fathom what emotion it is that darkens the usually pale blue irises.

“Whenever you’re ready, Dr Turner.”

Patrick swallows, reaching out his left hand to take her chin, his grip gentle enough that she might break away if she wishes. He tilts her face further to expose the sharp line of her jaw and feels his stomach twist once more as he observes the extent of the bruise marring her pale skin.

Cautiously, he brings his other hand up to press along the curve of her jaw, pausing when Sister Bernadette hisses at even that slight pressure. Patrick waits, but her eyes remain fixed on something in the distance and she offers no resistance as he continues to probe along the bone. The muscles of her jaw flutter under his fingers, as if she is clenching her teeth.

Satisfied to have felt no irregularities in the bone, Patrick is about to remove his hand when something under the edge of Sister Bernadette’s wimple catches his eye.

A single lock of hair has escaped from beneath Sister Bernadette’s cap, perhaps knocked loose by the altercation in the Bromley’s flat, and it now rests innocently against her neck. Patrick is unable to tear his gaze away, eyes intently cataloguing the color, a rich honey blonde, and the ever so slight wave of the strand. He knows that he shouldn’t pay it such close attention, that Sister Bernadette would be discomfited by the errant curl and by him having noticed it at all. But he has never seen her hair, or any of the nuns’ besides Sister Monica Joan to be honest, and Patrick finds himself entranced.

Without him realizing, his hand slides just under the edge of Sister Bernadette’s wimple, fingers outstretched to brush the curl where it rests temptingly against the pale skin of her neck--

“Doctor?”

Sister Bernadette’s voice breaks Patrick from his intense study, and he drops both of his hands from her face, clenching them into fists at his sides. She watches him warily, shoulders tense and smalls hands twisting together nervously in front of her.

What was he thinking, taking such liberties when Sister Bernadette had trusted him to be professional? He feels vaguely nauseous, turning away from the woman so that she can’t see the guilt written so clearly on his face. 

“We really should get you back to Nonnatus,” Patrick says, reaching for the cigarette case and lighter in his jacket, suddenly desperate to occupy his hands. By the time he has one lit, Sister Bernadette has already moved around to the passenger side and seated herself in the battered MG. Patrick takes a deep, steadying drag on his cigarette before quickly following suit.

The drive back to Nonnatus House is tense; the stifling quiet is broken only by Timothy’s occasional comments about whatever catches his eye outside the car. Patrick finishes his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray between them. Against his will, he finds himself once more distracted by the woman next to him.

For her part, Sister Bernadette keeps her gaze firmly ahead, eyes never straying, but her hands twist anxiously in her lap, fingers idly spinning the plain gold ring on her right hand. Patrick fights the urge to reach out, to take her hands in his own and to twine their fingers together. Instead, he clenches his hands around the steering wheel and forces himself to watch the road. 

He wishes he had some idea of what thoughts stir behind that placid exterior, though he knows it is foolish to even try and imagine. Sister Bernadette so rarely opens up to anyone outside of her fellow sisters. But what would it be like, Patrick wonders, to be in her confidence, to know her thoughts and opinions and concerns. He wonders what it is like to truly know her.

Their arrival at Nonnatus House puts an end to Patrick’s introspection. He parks the car just next to the stairs and gets out so that he can open the passenger door for Sister Bernadette. She looks up at him through dark lashes and the delicate frames of her glasses. Patrick swallows against the knot in his throat, quickly moving away so that Sister Bernadette can get out while he fetches her medical bag from the boot.

Patrick hands off her bag just as Timothy pokes his head over the backseat. “Sister Bernadette, you will let someone check on your shoulder, won’t you?” Sister Bernadette seems surprised by the question and even more so by the concern in the boy’s voice. Patrick shoots Tim a warning look, but he ignores Patrick. “It’s just that, if it were Dad, he wouldn’t want to bother anyone and then it might get worse” He grins mischievously and continues, “You’re almost as bad as he is, so I want to make sure you don’t put it off.”

“Tim, that’s enough,” Patrick finally says, exasperated by his son’s cheek. He turns to Sister Bernadette, but the apology on his lips dies when he sees the soft smile that she seems to be unable to smother. He realizes quite unexpectedly that she, like Patrick, finds Timothy’s antics difficult to resist. 

“I’ll certainly do my best, Timothy,” she says. Turning to Patrick, she reaches out a hand for her bag. As he passes it over, their fingers catch against one another, and he feels a charge of electricity race up his arm. Sister Bernadette jerks away from the contact and draws her bag close to her stomach, creating a solid barrier between them.

Sister Bernadette lets her eyes drop from his face to settle on the knot of his tie. Patrick fights the urge to adjust the wrinkled strip of silk. 

“Have a good evening, Dr Turner,” she says, and already she is spinning away from him, preparing to flee into the safe confines of Nonnatus.

Patrick feels wrong-footed as he watches her climb the steps, as if something important has been left unsaid between them, but he can’t even begin to understand what. He watches until the hem of her habit disappears through the front door.

From inside the car, Timothy clambers over the seat so that he can sit in the front. He pokes his head out of the still-open passenger door. “She was acting rather odd, wasn’t she, Dad?”

“I imagine she’s probably in a fair bit of pain, Tim.” Patrick shakes his head, hoping to clear away the strange feel settling in his chest. He pulls another cigarette from his case. Getting back into the car, Patrick tries to put the events of the evening from his mind, though he’s mostly unsuccessful. He can’t shake the image of that single blonde curl resting against her neck or the sensation of her fingers tangled with his own, despite the contact lasting for only the briefest moment.

Timothy wrinkles his nose as the cigarette smoke fills the car. “I hope she feels better soon,” he mumbles as he rolls the window down, letting the smoke roll away into the fading evening light.

Patrick sighs. “Me too, Tim.” With a last glance at Nonnatus House, Patrick backs down the driveway, mind fixated on the young nun tucked away inside.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set within 2x03, the day after Mav Carter's delivery.

Sister Bernadette bustles around the parish hall’s kitchen, loading the sink with whatever dishes appear to be in need of washing. Out in the hall, she can hear the nurses chatting and laughing as they stack the chairs and push the screens back into their places. She wonders what they might be discussing, if they’re making plans to attend the dances tonight. The sharp burn of longing in her chest catches her off guard with its intensity, and she desperately tries to quash the feeling, to remind herself that her place is with her fellow sisters, not with these young women who are uninhibited by religious vows.

Shaking her head, Sister Bernadette rolls up the sleeves of her habit as best she can and returns her attention to the dishes, submerging her hands in the warm, soapy water. She sets to scrubbing the first thing she grabs, hoping the menial task will draw her mind away from such disquieting thoughts.

She manages to clean two tea cups and their respective saucers before she sees Dr Turner ease through the door from the corner of her eye. Sister Bernadette looks over and gives him a small smile before continuing with her work.

Ashtray in hand and a lit cigarette between his lips, Dr Turner leans his back against the counter just on the other side of the sink and watches her for a few moments. Sister Bernadette feels his eyes on her but does her best to ignore the heat creeping up her neck and the tension coiling in her shoulders.

Nearly a minute passes in silence that is too charged to truly be comfortable when he finally speaks.

“I don’t know how you manage it, Sister Bernadette.” She pauses in her task to glance at him in confusion. Dr Turner blows out a stream of smoke and gives her a wry grin. “Not even twelve hours ago, you and I were finishing up with the Carter’s, yet you were as collected and diligent as ever during clinic, and I feel as though a stiff breeze could knock me off my feet. Your stamina truly astounds me sometimes.” Sister Bernadette blushes, though she keeps her eyes turned down in hopes that he won’t be able to see how pleased she is by the compliment. She places another clean plate in the drainer.

In all honesty, she is exhausted, both by the delivery from the early morning and by the antenatal clinic that seemed to drag on endlessly this afternoon. Judging by the dark purple smudges under Dr Turner’s eyes, she imagines he must feel in a rather similar state.

Sister Bernadette regards him with sympathetic eyes. “Don’t tear yourself down so, Dr Turner. The hours you work are just a strenuous as my own, and you’ve a nearly teenage boy at home to boot. I think you’re managing admirably.” 

He smiles, seemingly gratified by her words, and Sister Bernadette feels a flutter of warmth in her belly.

“Well, I don’t know about managing, but I can assure you, I’m certainly feeling my age today,” he says, watching through the hatch as the nurses finish righting the parish hall. 

“You’re hardly decrepit, Doctor,” she replies, her tone teasing. As she speaks, Sister Bernadette can’t prevent her eyes from tracing along the strong lines of Dr Turner’s neck and shoulders, can’t stop the thought that she mostly certainly doesn’t think of him as anything less than devastatingly handsome. Perturbed by her own thoughts, Sister Bernadette quickly averts her gaze, instead tracking the movement of his hand as it raises the cigarette to his mouth for another long drag.

Dr Turner, as if feeling her scrutiny, catches her staring and follows her line of sight, peering at his cigarette for a moment before realization brightens his hazel eyes. Sister Bernadette’s stomach clenches, suddenly beset by nerves and fearing that she has inadvertently revealed the extent of her feelings with her roving gaze. She steels herself, expecting his rejection, however kindly he might manage to phrase it.

He gestures with the fag. “Forgive me, sister. I feel rather bad now, having smoked in front of you so often and never having offered before this morning.” Her breath leaves her in a rush, and she goes nearly boneless with relief as his words register in her mind. 

It seems that, for now at least, her secret is safe, but she must take greater pains to insure Dr Turner remains unaware of the true depth of her regard.

Sister Bernadette shakes her head, trying to find her way back into the conversation. “Don’t trouble yourself, Doctor. I really shouldn’t have indulged, as it is.” She doesn’t mention how worried she had been this morning when she returned to Nonnatus, fearing that one of the other nuns would smell it on her breath and realize her transgression. 

“Surely it can’t hurt to indulge every once in a while?”

Sister Bernadette tries to give him a stern look, but she imagines the effect is ruined by the playful smile she can't quite smother. “Try telling that to Sister Evangelina.” Dr Turner seems to shudder ever so slightly at even the thought, playing it up to lighten the mood. Seeing his theatrical grimace, Sister Bernadette struggles to stifle her laughter. He tilts his head back, grinning as he watches her and seeming rather pleased with himself. 

Reigning in her mirth, Sister Bernadette forces herself to settle once more to her task, though the warmth in her chest still threatens to bubble over. She doesn’t recall them ever being so light and teasing with one another, but she can’t say that she doesn’t appreciate the easy comradery between them right now. It’s almost intoxicating, how comfortable she feels, despite being practically alone with the good doctor.

After a moment, Dr Turner continues with their prior conversation. “Would you like a puff off mine?”

Sister Bernadette looks up sharply, eyes flickering between the cigarette and Dr Turner’s earnest face. A quick smoke would be very welcome after the long day she’s had, but Sister Bernadette would never admit to it. She went ten years without so much as a single puff until this morning, surely she can resist the temptation now.

As if sensing her inner debate, Dr Turner continues. “I think you might need it more than I do, to be honest, sister.” Dr Turner holds the cigarette out to her, just as he had much earlier that morning. 

Sister Bernadette stares at the proffered fag before glancing up at the doctor through her lashes, feeling unreasonably flustered by his casual offering.

“Really, Dr Turner,” she mutters primly, “trying to tempt a nun into vice? What would the others think?” He simply grins in response, and Sister Bernadette is helpless against the fond affection she observes his expression. Glancing quickly over her shoulder to see if anyone else is still nearby, she capitulates. “Very well, but if we’re caught, you shall be the one to explain yourself.”

“Come now, what Sister Evangelina doesn’t know, won’t hurt us.” Dr Turner takes a step closer, and Sister Bernadette suddenly remembers that she’s almost elbow-deep in dishwater. She stares forlornly down at her dripping hands, before looking to the doctor in askance.

Seeing her dilemma, Dr Turner moves still closer, near enough now that Sister Bernadette can almost feel the heat of his body next to her. “Allow me,” he murmurs. 

She hardly dares to breathe as Dr Turner raises his hand to her lips, the cigarette still nestled between his own fingers, watching intently as she leans forward to take a drag. Sister Bernadette pulls back almost immediately, but she still feels the feather light slide of his finger tips along her jaw as she draws away. 

Startled by the unexpected touch, she peers up and finds herself trapped by the intensity of his stare and the darkness of his hazel eyes. The smoke she's holding in her lungs leaves her in a rush, billowing up between them. At the back of her mind, Sister Bernadette knows she should step away and put some distance between herself and Dr Turner. The tension growing between them, stoked by their locked gazes, can only lead to her undoing. She knows this with unshakable certainty, yet Sister Bernadette cannot bring herself to heed the frantic voice of reason shouting from the back of her mind. 

“Sister Bernadette? We're heading back to Nonnatus now.”

Nurse Lee’s voice at the kitchen hatch is as effective as being doused with a bucket of cold water. Sister Bernadette jerks towards the younger nurse, cheeks flaming at having been caught in the midst of _something_ with Dr Turner. Dr Turner turns away from both woman, free hand toying with one of the tea cups in the drainer as Nurse Lee looks curiously between them. 

“Will you be coming back with us, sister?” she asks. 

Sister Bernadette nervously adjusts her glasses, so distracted that she barely notices her dripping hands. “I'll follow along shortly, Nurse Lee. I still have a few things to attend to.”

Nurse Lee smiles, leaving the parish hall along with the other nurses as an awkward silence falls like a heavy curtain over the kitchen. 

Not quite knowing what to do and desperate to avoid looking at Dr Turner, Sister Bernadette returns to the sink, but there is nothing left to wash so she drains the water. She keeps her eyes fixed on the tiny whirlpool forming at the center of the drain.

Dr Turner, apparently discontent with the suffocating quiet that’s settled over them, attempts to resume their earlier conversation. “How did you start smoking, sister, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Sister Bernadette dries her hands and forearms with a dish towel, trying to collect herself. Unrolling the sleeves of her habit and letting the heavy blue wool fall back down her arms, she bustles around the kitchen, straightening things as she goes. 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Dr Turner.” Her tone is perhaps a tad bit sharp, but she’s on edge now and reluctant to indulge in his further attempts at friendly conversation. It had been foolish, she realizes in hindsight, to permit his familiarity and teasing earlier and to respond in kind. He makes it so easy to forget her obligations, to fall into that comfortable banter which gives her a brief, frustrating taste of what it might be like to know him in his private life. The side of his life to which she has no right to see or experience. And yet, she cannot resist the compulsion to engage with him further, to draw out this encounter. 

“I was simply curious as to how someone like yourself gets into such a habit. This morning you mentioned nicking them from your father’s desk when you were fourteen,” Dr Turner pauses to take a drag on his own cigarette. “That's rather young to start smoking, at least in my experience.”

Sister Bernadette grabs a dish towel and begins to dry the dishes now waiting in the drainer. It's a fairly pointless task, but it's so rare that she and the doctor can speak so freely with one another without the presence of her sisters or interruptions from patients.

Against her better judgment, Sister Bernadette decides to oblige Dr Turner’s gentle inquiry. Running over his words in her mind, Sister Bernadette carefully considers how best to continue. Her vows discourage sharing personal history, but Dr Turner is looking at her with such genuine curiosity and interest that she cannot withstand the need to reveal a small portion of her past. 

Ignoring the reproachful voice at the back of her mind which sounds astonishingly like Sister Evangelina, she says,“It’s rather embarrassing, actually.” Dr Turner nods encouragingly, smiling softly. “One of the boys who lived near my home smoked fairly frequently, and I was rather eager to impress him.” 

Sister Bernadette’s cheeks heat with chagrin, recalling how overly eager she had been at that age, how desperately she wanted to be acknowledged by someone, anyone. Dr Turner remains silent, content to listen while she stacks the plates and returns all of the cleaned dishes to their proper places. Though Sister Bernadette is very aware of his presence as she moves around him, she is careful to avoid looking directly at Dr Turner. 

“I’m afraid to say that I might have had a wee bit of a crush on him, at the time. So I thought, if I smoked as well, then he would think I was interesting and someone worth noticing.” Sister Bernadette shuffles together a few loose pamphlets and sets them on the shelf below the open hatch while Dr Turner stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray where it rests on the counter. When she turns to face him once more, she is surprised by how serious he seems, his brows furrowed with consternation.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, sister,” Dr Turner says, voice quiet but full of conviction. Sister Bernadette forces herself to breathe, to not react when he steps away from the counter and approaches her. He stops a couple feet from her and she thinks he might reach out to her, might place one of his strong, healing hands on her shoulder or cheek. Instead, Dr Turner tucks his hands into his pockets, and Sister Bernadette berates herself for even hoping that he might touch her, however innocently.

Unaware of her inner struggle, he continues, voice earnest, “I’ve always thought you were someone worth noticing, and that was without ever really knowing anything about you.” His lips lift, the soft smile striking Sister Bernadette like a physical blow. “You’re difficult to ignore, to be honest.”

“You’re very kind, Dr Turner,” Sister Bernadette replies mechanically, but she can hardly hear herself speak over the pounding of her own heart. She averts her eyes, unable to bear the sincerity of his expression, the steady certainty of his gaze. It’s terrifying how effectively he robs her of her confidence even as he says what she has yearned almost all her life to hear.

“I’m serious, sister. I remember when I met you, at the first birth we attended together.” Sister Bernadette remembers too, remembers how she had stared after him like a love-struck teenager. The passage of a decade has done little to alter that, it would seem.

Dr Turner moves closer, ducking his head slightly so that he can catch her down-turned gaze. Softly, he continues, “I remember being so impressed by you, this young woman just out of nursing school but so determined to help, to do good for the community, even if it was just one mother at a time.” Though Dr Turner doesn’t say it, Sister Bernadette knows with absolute certainty what he’s thinking. _You and I, we’re the same_. “I saw you, Sister Bernadette, from the very beginning.”

Sister Bernadette closes her eyes, clenching them shut against the image of his face, so heartfelt and open and everything that she's ever dreamt of. The room suddenly feels too small. Turning away, Sister Bernadette fumbles at the ties of her apron, her hands trembling as she picks at the knotted strings. 

Behind her, Sister Bernadette hears the rustle of Dr Turner’s clothes as he moves, though she doesn't know if he is stepping closer or giving her space. She prays for the latter, but her heart, traitorous organ that it is, leaps at the hope that he's closing the distance between them. 

She finally manages to untie her apron and hangs the garment on one of the hooks affixed to the wall. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Sister Bernadette turns, half expecting Dr Turner to be just behind her, but he's once more across the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he lights another cigarette. Her shoulders sag with disappointment. 

Struggling slightly to regain her equilibrium, Sister Bernadette twists her hands together in front of her, hoping to hide the faint trembling in her fingers. She swallows against the lump in her throat, and when she manages to speak, her accent is thick with emotion. “That means a great deal to me, Dr Turner.”

“It's the truth, and you deserve to hear it, Sister Bernadette.” Dr Turner glances down, observing the smoke as it curls away from his cigarette, and with a twist of his wrist, checks his wrist watch. Sister Bernadette hears his heavy sigh, and fights to keep her expression neutral when he tilts his head in her direction. 

“Duty calls, I'm afraid.” Dr Turner grinds his cigarette into his ashtray and tucks the remainder of the butt back into his cigarette case. “My first stop is fairly close to Nonnatus, if you’d like a ride back, sister?” His hazel eyes are ever so hopeful, and Sister Bernadette’s heart aches. 

“Thank you, Dr Turner, but I'll make my own way.” She honestly doesn't believe that she can handle being within such a confined space with him for any length of time, so the rebuttal comes easily. 

Dr Turner gives her a small smile, but she imagines that he seems rather disappointed by her refusal. “You always have, sister.”

With one final glance her direction, Dr Turner turns, retrieving his medical bag from where he left it just inside the kitchen doorway. Sister Bernadette watches his departure, wishing she could reach out to him, could accept his offer with a clean conscience, but she forces herself to bite her tongue and wraps her fingers around her cross. The motion brings her no comfort, just as it has failed to soothe the rough edges of her fractious mind for the past several months. 

Sister Bernadette stands alone for a few moments, left in the silence of the empty parish hall. She allows herself only a few seconds of listlessness before compelling herself to gather her things. 

Outside the parish hall, people walk up and down the street, and Sister Bernadette ducks around a pair of chatting men to retrieve her bicycle. They tip their hats as she passes, and she manages a small smile in return. 

As she pedals down the street, she lets the sounds of Poplar wash over her. The whirlwind in her mind settles, if only for a moment, the ever present struggle between her desires and her obligations briefly set aside while Sister Bernadette glides along the cobblestone streets. 

Tonight, when she returns to Nonnatus House, she will join her sisters in compline and then shut herself away in her cell for the Great Silence. When sleep finally finds her, Sister Bernadette knows where her dreams will take her, just as it has happened most nights for so many months. She will dream of security and warmth and the love of a good man she does not deserve and can never possess. She will dream of being the mother of a young boy that she, despite sharing no blood, loves so fiercely that it makes her chest ache. She will dream and know that she belongs and loves with all of her soul and is loved just as wholeheartedly in return.

And tomorrow, when the early light of dawn begins to peak through her window, Sister Bernadette will wake alone and all of her indecision and uncertainty come crashing back down upon her. 

She pedals onward and considers the unexpected and unwanted turn her life has taken. 

Ahead of her, the crumbling structure of Nonnatus House looms, and Sister Bernadette mentally shakes off her discontented thoughts. 

She is so very tired of fighting these doubts and struggling against her own heart’s wishes. Tonight, she will let her exhaustion drag her into a deep sleep and she will welcome the dreams that come to her. 

Tomorrow will be a new day. 


End file.
